You Look Like A Movie, You Sound Like A Song
by jonghyundroppedthesoap
Summary: When Sherlock visits the cinema one late afternoon, he doesn't anticipate enjoying himself. But it's not the movie that's captured his attention. Rather, it's the odd laugh sounding from a few rows down. Movie forgotten, Sherlock spends the remainder of the film trying to find the mysterious source. The last thing he expects is John Watson.


Sherlock didn't go to the cinemas often. In fact, this was the first time he recalled doing so during his adult life. He went so rarely in fact, that it came as a surprise to even Sherlock himself when he found himself seated in the theatre one late afternoon.

The movie had looked terrible. Sherlock had seen billboards advertising it around every corner. But he had been in the centre of London after a particularly boring case earlier that day, and in that spur of desperation for something new, Sherlock had seen the cinema and gone straight in. In reality, all the movies had looked equally terrible, but the comedy he'd chosen had been the most popular. Surely popular opinion couldn't be _that_ awful.

Consensus was, it _could_ be.

The humour was terrible, the actors clearly weren't paid enough, and if Sherlock had to sit through another second, he was sure his brain would rot.

He considered leaving. And he was about to, really. But then a bout of laughter erupted from somewhere further down in the cinema and Sherlock's attention was diverted elsewhere.

It was a peculiar laugh.

Quite high-pitched and strained – as though the owner was trying to hold in their giggles.

Sherlock frowned. He didn't pay £8 for the movie to be ruined by someone's incessant laughter. He tried to pay attention to what was on the screen. It was some nonsense about an undercover cop, and, Sherlock concluded, was very unrealistic.

'Yes, the police are idiots, but this is pushing it.'

The laughter sounded again and Sherlock nearly stomped his foot in anger. He narrowed his gaze and attempted fruitlessly to find the source. He was half tempted to find the man – yes, definitely a man – and drag him out of the cinema himself. But alas, the theatre was practically full, and it was quite difficult to find anyone in the crowd, let alone the one Sherlock was searching for.

The movie was long forgotten. Sherlock hadn't actively paid attention for a solid ten minutes. The laughter, that one giggle, had stolen all his attention.

And _no_ , he did not find the laugh enticing. Or adorable. Or even cute in the slightest sense. But it kept on grasping his focus, each time those giggles burst out and decorated the room. And if Sherlock's lips had tilted up in the slightest smile upon hearing the laugh, he would never admit it.

Briefly, Sherlock considered the fact that this laugh could be sounding from a thirteen year old boy, but promptly quelled the thought. It was nonsense. This was certainly the laugh of a _man_. Sherlock secretly hoped it wasn't a fifty year old homeless one.

The movie was nearly over. It had to have been. Hours had passed and it seemed as though the main complication of the film had already been resolved. Sherlock's legs bounced restlessly. He had yet to find the source of the giggles and time was running thin. He did another thorough scan of the theatre, mentally prompting a laugh from every audience member. But nobody laughed.

Nobody except one.

Sherlock nearly jumped in his seat. The high-pitched giggle – there it was.

And the source?

A middle aged man with sandy blond hair and the ugliest sweater Sherlock had ever seen.

 _He was beautiful._

Sherlock couldn't yet tell if he was alone or accompanied by someone else – the cinema was packed like sardines. But the credits would be rolling soon and Sherlock would have a complete, unobscured view.

The time came soon, as predicted, and before Sherlock knew it, the man was walking up the stairs and towards the exit. Sherlock started in his seat. He wasn't prepared. He had nothing to say. He stood awkwardly from his seat, cursing silently as his forgotten box of popcorn fell from his lap and to the floor. Scurrying down to pick it up and desperately trying to tidy the mess, Sherlock lifted his gaze.

The man was staring directly at him.

Sherlock usually prided himself on composure, but in that moment, he was more flustered than he'd ever been before. His mouth gaped open and the eye contact was maintained for an uncomfortable length of time.

And then the man was laughing again. At him. At Sherlock, bundled awkwardly on the floor in a desperate attempt to clean his mess of popcorn.

The laugh was high-pitched – it didn't suit the man's façade. This man was short albeit broad shouldered. He held himself with a strong composure which commanded authority, harboured a slight tan and a tame haircut.

Military man, then. Sherlock would deny reddening any more at the thought.

"Did you need a hand?" The man spoke up kindly. There was a lingering laughter in his tone.

Sherlock picked himself up from the floor and shook his head, meeting the man's gaze. Both their eyes sparkled with humour, and at the mere situation, Sherlock found himself laughing along. His deep baritone weaved perfectly with the other man's soft chime.

"I… should be fine, thanks." replied Sherlock once their laughter had died. "The name is Sherlock, by the way. Sherlock Holmes."

The other man held out his hand. "John Watson. It's a pleasure, Sherlock."

Sherlock took John's hand in his own and shook it warmly. "The pleasure is mine." His lips wavered in a threatened smile. What was it about this man that made him so whimsical?

"Enjoy the movie?" John asked. He still hadn't released Sherlock's hand.

Sherlock snorted. "I was a bit… distracted."

"Oh?"

Sherlock hummed in agreement, a smirk ghosting his features. "Someone was laughing the whole way through. Quite off-putting, really."

John gaped and he finally let go of Sherlock's hand. "Me?" he mouthed. A humour sparked behind his eyes.

"Of course, you."

Bursting out into another fit of laughter, John reached behind him for a cane Sherlock hadn't noticed previously.

'I'm getting slack.'

"E-Excuse me, sirs. We need to clean up for the next movie. Would it be alright if you left the theatre?" A young employee spoke up from beside them. Sherlock hadn't noticed him either. He really _was_ getting slack.

"Of course, sorry." apologised John, his hand clenching nervously by his side. He turned to Sherlock. "Right… well… I best be off then." His grip tightened around his cane.

Sherlock surveyed him closely, disregarding the employee. He'd been injured at war – that much was obvious. But was the cane really necessary? Sherlock thinned his lips.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"Excuse me?"

Sherlock smiled, smug. "Get coffee with me and I'll tell you how I knew?"

John paused, silent for a few moments.

Then he laughed, that same peculiar, high-pitched chortle.

"Oh _god_ , yes."


End file.
